


James Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

by minaviolet



Series: Incomplete Works [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 14:46:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3138170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minaviolet/pseuds/minaviolet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mother screams for her husband and prays for her child's safety as a dark wizard murders her. A father refuses the opportunity to live as he protects his child. A child defeats the Dark Lord. A sister takes in her brother's child.<br/>This is the tale of James Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived.</p>
            </blockquote>





	James Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.

Mr. Dursley was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, and a very large mustache. He was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills.

Mrs. Dursley was thin, blonde and had an appalling amount of neck. This was very useful when she craned her head over garden fences, spying on the neighbors.

The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion (and mind you, their opinion alone) there wasn’t a finer boy to be anywhere else.

The Dursleys lived a perfectly monotonous life, but they had a secret, and their greatest fear was that it’d be discovered. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters.

Mr. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's brother, but they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a brother, because her brother and his harlot of a wife were as abnormal as it was possible to be.

The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son as well, but they had never even seen him; good riddance as well, they didn't want Dudley mixing with a child like that.

Our story begins on a dull, gray Tuesday. There was naught about the cloudy sky outside that hinted to the strange and mysterious things that would be happening later this day.

Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.

None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.

At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls.

"Little tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four's drive.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar—a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn't comprehend what he had seen—then he quickly jerked his head back around.

There was a calico cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but it clearly wasn’t reading any maps. What had he been thing? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat.

Strangely, it stared back.

As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive—no, merely looking at it; for cats could not read.

Mr. Dursley shook his head and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.

But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of oddly dressed people about.

Cloaked people.

Mr. Dursley simply could not stand people who dressed in funny clothes—the getups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion.

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these loons standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together.

Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that some of them weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and he wore an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him!

But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt; these people were clearly collecting for something. And with that, he drove the cloaked people out of his mind and returned to thinking about drills. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot.

Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found it somewhat more difficult to concentrate on drills that morning.

He didn't see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did, and they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead.

 Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime.

Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery.

He'd forgotten all about the cloaked people until he passed a group of them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn't know why, but they made him a sense of foreboding.

This bunch were whispering excitedly as well, and for some reason, he couldn't see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a snippet of what they were saying.

"The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard…yes, their son, James…"

Mr. Dursley froze, fear flooding his body. He looked back at the whisperers as if to say something to them, but thought better of it.

He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache.

He was being foolish. Potter wasn't such an unusual name. He was sure there were plenty of Potters with sons named James. Thinking of his nephew, he wasn't even sure the boy was called James. He'd never even seen the boy—it might have been Jackson. Or Jerry.

There wasn’t any point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at any mention of her brother. He didn't blame her—if he'd had a brother like that...but all the same, those people in cloaks...

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.

"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak.

He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground.

On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a very squeaky voice, "Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!"

And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off. Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot.

He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. Rattled, he hurried to his car and set off for home hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw—and it didn't improve his mood—was the calico cat he'd spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same curls on its head.

"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly. The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered.

Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new word ("Won't!"). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally.

When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:

"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern."

The newscaster grinned mischievously.

"Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"

"Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars!  Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early—it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight."

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain?

Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place?

And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters...

Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. "Er—Petunia, dear—you haven't heard from your brother lately, have you?"

As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn't have a brother.

"No," she said sharply. "Why?"

"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled. "Owls...shooting stars...and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today..."

"So?" snapped Mrs. Dursley.

"Well, I just thought...maybe...it was something to do with...you know...his crowd."

Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter." He decided he didn't dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could, "Their son—he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?"

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.

"What's his name again? John, isn't it?"

"James. Nasty, common name, if you ask me."

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes, I quite agree."

He didn't bring the subject up againsubject as they went upstairs to bed.

While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? If it did...if it got out that they were related to a pair of—well, he didn't think he could bear it.

The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Dursley.

The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind. He couldn't see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on—it couldn't affect them....

How very wrong he was.

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive.

It didn't as much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots.

His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome.

He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street.

For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."

He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again—the next lamp flickered into darkness.

Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him.

If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement.

Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor Granger."

He turned to smile at the calico cat, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who curly brown hair exactly the same as the curls the cat had had atop its head. She, too, was wearing a cloak, a crimson one. Her sharp brown eyes were narrowed. She looked distinctly ruffled.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked.

"My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."

"You would be stiff too if you’d been sitting on a brick wall all day," grumbled Professor Granger.

"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."

Professor Granger sniffed angrily.

"Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said impatiently.

"You would think that they would be more careful, but no—even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on the news." She jerked her head back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window. "I heard the news reports.

Flocks of owls...shooting stars...They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent—I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never did have much common sense."

"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."

"I know that," said Professor Granger irritably. "But that isn’t a reason to throw caution to the winds. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even disguised, swapping rumors."

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on.

"A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have finally disappeared, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really is gone, Professor Dumbledore?"

"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"

"No, thank you," said Professor Granger coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for lemon drops. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who is gone—"

"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You- Know-Who' nonsense—for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort."

Professor Granger gave a slight flinch, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name.”

"I know you haven't, said Professor Granger, sounding exasperated but admiring. ”But you're different, Professor Dumbledore. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know—all right, Voldemort, was frightened of.”

"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."

"Only because you're too noble to use them."

"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."

Professor Granger shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, "The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. Do you know what everyone is saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"

It seemed that Professor Granger had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now.

It was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.

"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Ginny and James Potter are—are that—that they’re dead. "

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor Granger gasped.

"Ginny and James...I can't believe it...I didn't want to believe it...Oh, Professor Dumbledore..."

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I know...I know..." he said heavily.

Professor Granger's voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill James’s son, James. But—he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill James Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke—and that's why he's gone.

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

"It's—it's true?" faltered Professor Granger. "After all he's done...all the people he's killed...he couldn't kill a little boy? It's just impossible...of all the things to stop him...but how in the name of heaven did James survive?"

"We can only guess," said Dumbledore. "We may never know." Professor Granger pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it.

It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said,

"Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?"

"Yes," said Professor Granger. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?"

"I've come to bring James to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now, on his father’s side."

"You don't mean—you can't mean the people who live here?" cried Professor Granger, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four.

"Professor—you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are more unfit. And they've got this son—I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. James Potter come and live here! Why can’t he live with—me and Ronald?"

"It's the best place for him," said Dumbledore firmly. "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter."

"A letter?" repeated Professor Granger faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "You can’t possibly think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him, nor care for him! He'll be famous—I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as James Potter day in the future—there will be books written about James—every child in our world will know his name!"

"Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any boy's head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won't even remember! Can’t you see how much better off he'll be, growing up away from all that until he's ready to take it?"

Professor Granger shook her head and said, "No, I can’t. But Professor, you will let us check on him, won’t you? You must have your reasons for sending him here, don’t you?”

“I do indeed, my dear Professor,” said Dumbledore solemnly, and Professor Granger swallowed, and jerkily nodded her head, then covered a silent sob. After a few moments, she spoke again.

“But how is James getting here, Professor?" She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding James underneath it.

"Hagrid's bringing him."

"You feel it wise to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"

“I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.

"I don’t mean to say that his heart isn't in the right place," said Professor Granger grudgingly, "but you can't pretend he isn’t a bit careless. He does tend to—what was that?"

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of headlights; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky—and a Ford Anglia fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

The man that came out of driver’s seat was almost the size of the car itself. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide.

He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild—long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did you get the flying car?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the giant. "Young Ronald Prewett lent it to me. I've got him, sir."

"No problems, were there?"

"No, sir—house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."

Dumbledore and Professor Granger bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

"Is that where—?" whispered Professor Granger.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Professor?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well—give him here, Hagrid—we'd better get this over with."

Dumbledore took James in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house.

"Could I—could I say good-bye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over James and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.

"Hush!" hissed Professor Granger, "you'll wake the Muggles!"

"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it—Ginny an' James dead—an' poor little James off ter live with Muggles—"

"Yes, yes, I understand, but please, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor Granger whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door.

He laid James gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside James's blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor Granger blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.

"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

"Yeah," said Hagrid in a muffled voice, "I'll be takin' Ronald his car back. G'night, Professor Granger—Professor Dumbledore, sir."

Wiping his tear-filled eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid closed himself into the car and turned the key; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor Granger," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor Granger blew her nose in reply.

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a calico cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

"Good luck, James," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen.  James Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up.

One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, and not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley...He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To James Potter—the boy who lived!"


End file.
